Now that the major excitement is over, I can recollect in tranquility.

Am I glad I avoided a close encounter with the local fuzz! I do not think that Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina could bear to give due credit to yet another Vegas PI.

At least my Miss Temple has been recognized for her nimble mental gymnastics in a serial-murder case that involves years and multilocations, not to mention for her first-class physical exertions to save herself from said serial killer and to help save another human—and a big, heavy man, too, although flaky and somewhat light in the Earth shoes.

In fact, I was horrified to hear all the details of her ordeal while I concealed myself in Miss Violet’s kitchen and made sure the returning feline nation broke their necessary desert fast with lots and lots of Free-to-Be-Feline.

I do not want any leftovers of that stuff coming home with Miss Temple.

I could see a climax coming in the harassment of Miss Violet Weiner and her indoor clowder of thirty-some descendents of Great Bast. So Miss Midnight Louise and I have been treading through the sand and dirt and young mesquite-tree thorns in dark of night as well as daylight to round up the “released” felines and herd them away from danger.

There was more trouble afoot than the secret avenger inside the house, now revealed. Face it. These were a bunch of domestic slaves with not a clue how to live outside on their own. They were in danger of falling into the flood channel, like their beloved caretaker, Mr. Pedro Gomez. They were in danger from coyotes because of the undeveloped land of the retention basin all around the house. They were in danger of people who take potshots at critters in the dark just for the fun of it.

So Miss Midnight Louise and I managed this what-they-call-a “Diaspora,” where a whole gang of the same stripe is forced out into the wilderness. It sounds too much like “diapers” to me, but it is one tough assignment.

You may have heard of the difficulty of herding cats. I consider it a slam on my kind for being smart and independent, but some insensitive humans will have their little jokes about the feline kind, since most of those who do that are one—a joke, that is.

Actually, since I now have been in the herding business, I must admit that saying has a point.

I cannot claim I was anticipating the peril of a fire within Miss Violet’s house, but it was indeed good to clear the premises of these endangered residents. Naturally, I am most unhappy with myself that I was not by Miss Temple’s side when she had to scramble for her life.

I am searching diligently for a way to make it up to her, and, peeking in as she and Mr. Matt prepare to leave Miss Violet’s house forever, I see Miss Midnight Louise on her hind feet, doing a claw-over-claw drag on the mattress side of the abandoned hospital bed, sniffing doggedly.

I am mortified! I do not doubt that a sickbed may have certain, shall I say “earthy” smells, but unlike we superior species, humans are fanatical about hiding, nay, denying that their noses are good for anything other than powdering or having changed to suit their face.

I rush over to stop Miss Louise’s rude behavior, when Miss Temple cries, “Oh, Matt. Louie is here.”

“Down,” I instruct Louise in a low growl. “You are giving the firm a bad name. We use our brains and claws, not our noses. At least not in front of impressionable humans.”

“Your nose is always out to lunch,” she says. “I am on a paper trail.”

“Paper is for the use of young and uncontrollable dogs, Louise, not seasoned and sophisticated sorts like us.”

“Not newspapers, Daddy Densest! The paper everyone is so concerned about around here: the will.”

Oh. The will.

I must confess I have never heard of any sensible feline leaving a will, although I know some have been left things in a will, which sounds like it is a form of litter box. At this moment, though, I watch one of Miss Louise’s foreclaws snag something white that is not a sheet. I jab out my own paw to help snag it and work it out and down. With the addition of my power and pizzazz, this long, thick sheaf sticks out like a triangular flag.

My Miss Temple and Mr. Matt are there before you can say “Captain Jack,” showering our little ears with heavy praise.

“Louie, Louise,” Miss Temple coos, like we are mourning doves, “you are so curious. You have found the missing will. Poor Violet must have heard the commotion and stuffed it down under the mattress with Father Hell’s magnets.”

“Temple, are you raving, too?” Mr. Matt asks.

“I will tell you later. Meanwhile, look at who the second witness to the will is.”

“Sylvan Smith. Does it still count now that he is dead?”

“Probably. He was known to be here, even if they have to prove it with fingerprints or DNA on the ashes. And … that explains why he went so berserk. He was forced to play along and see someone else get everything Violet treasured, which was the one thing he could not stand.”

“Who did get the estate?”

My Miss Temple uses her whole, bandaged right hand to flip awkwardly through the twenty-some pages. I watch with sympathy. Now she knows what it is to have no opposable thumbs, even if only for a few days.

“I cannot believe it,” she says finally, looking up at Mr. Matt.

What! What can she not believe? I am down here. With Louise. Look at me!

“Matt,” she says, with eyes only for him, the ingrate. “The whole shooting match, cat and caboodle, goes to Savannah Ashleigh.”

I do not get it. There was not a gun involved.

And I would not give Savannah Ashleigh a used whisker.